


wear your heart on your skin

by crooked



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Background Relationships, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac feels like he has been waiting <i>forever</i> — a whole two years — for someone to speak the words indelibly etched into his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wear your heart on your skin

**Author's Note:**

> based on [darlingjolras](http://darlingjolras.tumblr.com/post/84435518698/but-in-reference-to-that-soulmate-quote-on-your)'s les mis take on the [soul mate tattoo au](http://kenezbian.tumblr.com/post/83532261235/soulmate-au-where-you-wake-up-on-your-18th). title taken from a sylvia plath quote: "wear your heart on your skin in this life."

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes, touching the edge of his tattoo before pulling his shirt back down. _let me through, i'm a doctor_ is emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown Bossuet before today. "It's not the funniest one I've ever seen," he says. "Yours isn't exactly poetry, Bossuet."

Bossuet is leaning into Joly, who at least has the decency to only look slightly amused at the way his boyfriend is laughing at Courfeyrac. "I beg your pardon," Bossuet says, sitting up and affecting an offended look. "They are still the most beautiful words I've ever heard to date." He leans over and kisses Joly's cheek. Bossuet's tattoo is a thin line of script along the side of his neck that reads _oh my gosh, you're going to need stitches_. Joly's is a block of text on the underside of his wrist that reads _ah sorry if i bled on you_. And then they both have the same tattoo right over their hearts, one that simply says _pardon me, boys_. The mystery of that one hasn't yet been solved.

"Oh, leave him alone, Bossuet," Joly says with a little laugh. "It's hardly as if Courf chose what his tattoo said. And, hey, at least he knows his soul mate is going to be well-educated and financially stable."

Courfeyrac laughs. "Said the doctor-to-be. I just want them to fucking show up already. I'm twenty! My best years are rapidly fading."

"You've got at least another—" Bossuet gives him an appraising look. "—I'd say, what, four or five months? And then you're fucked. You'd better hope this person shows up soon."

Courfeyrac flashes his middle finger at Bossuet, grinning all the while. "You're an asshole and I hate myself for liking you anyway," he says. "I've gotta run. Meeting Chief for a little rally pregame." When both Joly and Bossuet lift skeptical eyebrows at the idea of Enjolras having pre-rally drinks with him Courfeyrac shrugs and adds, "Okay,we're not so much _pregaming_ as we're getting all the flyers and signs organized. It's Enjolras' version of the pregame."

He lovingly flips Bossuet off again, for good measure, and leaves to the chorus of their laughter.

\-----

"Honestly, Courf, it isn't bad," Enjolras says with a sympathetic smile. He was the only one who didn't laugh when Courfeyrac showed him his tattoo. Probably because his is the word _bullshit_ just over his left hip.

He'd been bothered by it until a few months ago when Grantaire sauntered up to the back of a group of students gathered around around Enjolras, listening to his impassioned speech about the importance of raising the minimum wage. Enjolras can't even remember what he'd said that caused Grantaire to yell out. But the moment his protest left his lips, Enjolras _knew_. He'd shouldered his way to the back, replying _who said that,_ and was met face-to-face with his soulmate: a man with unruly black curls peeking out from beneath a beanie and a bewildered look on his face as he rolled up his sleeve to show the words Enjolras had just said scrawled across his forearm.

"Why does everyone laugh?" Courfeyrac pouts, sighing and flopping over to drape himself over Enjolras' lap.

Enjolras doesn't even blink, continuing his task of sorting the different pamphlets they planned on passing out. It isn't their rally. It's one organized by a few different groups, but they thought the venue would be a good place to find like-minded people who might join their cause. "They laugh because it sort of does sound like a line from a rom-com," he says with an amused smile. He looks down at Courfeyrac, who is frowning up at him. "But one of those refreshingly witty and cute rom-coms that the critics love and don't pan in any way."

Courfeyrac sits up, heaving a huge sigh, and reaches for a stack of pamphlets. "I just wish—"

"They'd fucking show up already, I know," Enjolras finishes, though not unkindly.

"You know me too well," Courfeyrac says, smiling. "I hate it."

Enjolras leans over and nudges him with his shoulder. "Liar."

\-----

Combeferre frowns as he regards his reflection, twisted a bit to see the tattoo more clearly. He's had three years to get used to it. He doesn't know why it still embarrasses him to see the words. _did it hurt when you fell from heaven_ , it says, written sideways and in a vertical line from his rib cage to his hip. It's sweet, isn't it? That's what Jehan said the first time he saw it. (Which was easy for him to say. A beautiful line of script running along the ridge of his collarbone tells the world that his soul mate is going to say _i find it hard to breathe when you're near_.) Still, Combeferre can't help but find it a little... cheesy. A little pickup line-ish. It isn't exactly the first thing a person imagines their soul mate saying to them. But that's what the universe decided for him and he has no choice but to keep an ear out for the phrase.

And hope it isn't accompanied by a wink and finger guns.

He pulls his shirt down and sighs, turning away from the mirror. Combeferre grabs his messenger bag and slings it across his body, then he heads out for classes. A full day of pre-med courses always gets his mind off whatever it is that's troubling him. After all, there is nothing like ochem to take your mind of absolutely everything in the world because, well, it's fucking organic chemistry.

\-----

" _DO YOU HAVE A UTERUS? THEN SHUT THE FUCK UP_!"

Courfeyrac is going to lose his voice and it hasn't even been an hour. He can feel the crowd's energy thrumming through him, the people surrounding him yelling every bit as much as he is. Enjolras isn't immediately by him, the two of them having split up to cover more ground with Joly and Bossuet doing the same. He watches the face of the person he just directed that last one at, the righteous indignation turning his face beet red.

"Unless you're just one _ugly_ ass chick, bro, I'm pretty sure you don't have one either," the guy replied, probably expending all of his wit in that one sentence. His friends laugh raucously and elbow him, like he just served up the most vicious burn.

Courfeyrac steps forward a bit, breaking the unofficial lines between those protesting the women's rights rally. As usual, the anti-abortion rights crews are out in full force and they're among the loudest and most obnoxiously offensive. "You don't need to have a uterus to know it isn't your fucking place to tell a woman what she can and cannot do with hers!"

The guy obviously takes Courfeyrac's step toward him as a sign of aggression, and he quickly surges forward to get right in his face. "What? You wanna go?" he challenges him. Courfeyrac doesn't back down or show any signs of fear. He just grins at the guy. Which only makes him more upset. "I'll fuck your shit up, you little bitch!"

"Misogynistic slurs," Courfeyrac says, still grinning at the guy. "I should've made a drinking game. Every time one of you brainless fucks uses a misogynistic or homophobic slur, take two shots!"

" _Fuck you_!" the guy spits, posturing and trying to intimidate Courfeyrac. It doesn't work. At all.

Courfeyrac tips his head back and laughs, clutching at his stomach. "Oh, honey, not in your wildest dreams," he says. "But if I ever get a craving for a mediocre fuck from a tiny dick, you'll be the first person I call."

He anticipated the first punch and dodges it. But when the two sides take that as a sign to rush at each other and clash, the second punch thrown is the one that connects. Courfeyrac feels his nose break. The guy wasn't small, by any means, and his punch has tremendous force. It's chaos as he squares up to defend himself, blinking off the pain and ignoring the metallic tang of blood at one corner of his mouth. Without looking, he knows blood must be streaming from his nose. It doesn't matter. He won't be caught off guard again.

At least, that's his plan. The group of assholes who were with the guy who hit him, who is now engaged in a fight with someone else completely, decide to exact vengeance on his behalf. Even though he isn't the one with the broken nose. Courfeyrac never sees them coming. One of them delivers a sucker punch to his ribs and another shoves him, hard, from behind. He whirls to put his hands up in a defensive position, and that's when a fist connects with his temple.

Courfeyrac hits the ground, dazed and with his vision swimming.

\-----

The shouting draws Combeferre's attention as he's crossing the campus. He'd seen flyers about the rally but had been unable to attend because of his schedule. Normally, it would've been something he'd be interested in supporting, but finals were approaching soon and he had to try to give his studies top priority. But the voices were just so loud that he figured it couldn't hurt to take a quick detour in their direction, and if it was something he happened to get swept up in, well, he couldn't be blamed.

Just as he rounded the corner of a building and the crowds came into view, Combeferre realized the rally had just gotten out of control. Campus police were trying to get a handle on the situation, but the crowd outnumbered them and too many small fights had broken out. Something made him venture closer, though he knew he should've just headed to his next class if he wanted to avoid trouble. He kept at a relatively safe distance, with others from the rally who had backed away from the melee and were watching it all unfold, still waving signs and yelling support for those on their side.

Combeferre's eyes were darting all over, a look of concern on his face. Nothing seemed too bad, just a lot of shoving and shouting for the most part. But then his eyes spotted a little clearing in the group, several yards away, and he realized that there was someone on the ground.

He pushed right into the fighting group without thought, shouldering his way past people with surprising force. Many of them were so shocked at his sudden presence, just steamrolling though, that they actually stopped fighting and stared after him with a bewildered expression. Combeferre didn't stop or apologize. "Move!" he shouted, pushing a campus officer out of the way. "Move! Out of the way! Someone needs help!"

\-----

Courfeyrac's head is starting to pound and he knows that getting up is a bad idea. But staying down in the midst of all the ruckus around him isn't a much better idea. He tries to get to his feet and the blow he took to his ribs reminds him that it happened. Courfeyrac clutches his right side and curses, taking a moment to gather his strength and catch his breath and try again.

" _Let me though, I'm a doctor_!"

Courfeyrac's eyes widen the second he hears those words. They're clear as a bell over the din of the wayward rally. He'd have heard them in his sleep, twenty thousand leagues under the sea, buried under fifty feet of steel and concrete. Those were the words he felt like he'd been waiting all his life to hear. He looks around wildly, the motion making his head throb even more and his eyes lose focus again, but he doesn't give a damn about that. That is the voice of his soul mate he's just heard. He has to see them, and he has to see them _now_.

\-----

So he isn't a doctor yet, but Combeferre knew that would be more effective than yelling _let me through, i'm a pre-med student and have an as-of-yet limited knowledge of basic medical training_. And it works. He gets through to the person on the ground quicker than he'd made it through the crowd before. Combeferre kneels at his side, visually assessing the situation. Bloody nose, possibly broken. Dazed expression, possible concussion. He couldn't see anything else, but that didn't mean that there wasn't anything wrong with the man.

Combeferre is concerned about the way he's staring at him, gaping at him, as if he isn't at all sure of where he is. He's about to start asking him the basic questions — name, current date, what city are we in — when the man beats him to it and speaks.

"Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" he asks, and his lopsided grin is just about the most charming thing Combeferre has ever seen.

"It's you," he manages, not sure if his voice is even audible over the noise of the crowd. Combeferre tears his bag off and scrambles to lift his shirt, exposing his tattoo.

The guy on the ground is grinning wide, nodding, because he must've already heard all he needed to. Still, he beams when he sees Combeferre's tattoo. "It's you, too," he says. He pulls the collar of his shirt down and Combeferre can just see _though, i'm a_ on his skin. "I'm Courfeyrac and, uh, I guess I'll be your soul mate."

Combeferre laughs, feeling giddy and nervous and then giddy as fuck again. "Combeferre," he says. "I guess I'll be yours."

"How does this work?" Courfeyrac asks. They've both forgotten that they're on the ground and that a now de-escalating fight had been raging around them. "Do we shake on it or is there paperwork or?"

Combeferre shakes his head. "I have no idea," he says. "I'm as new to this as you are. I mean, I guess we could shake? That seems a little formal for soul mates, though, even if we have just m—"

He is cut off when Courfeyrac suddenly grabs Combeferre's face, surging up to bring their lips together in a kiss. Combeferre makes a soft noise of surprise, his hands out at his sides, fingers splayed. They soon find a home on Courfeyrac's back, clutching him closer and, god, he is _kissing his soul mate_. It's surreal and ridiculous and really fucking good and he never, ever wants to stop. But they do, and Courfeyrac is still grinning that cute grin at him when he pulls back.

"Or we could just do that," Combeferre says, a little breathless and a little flushed. He pushes his glasses up his nose, biting his lip and smiling around it. "A lot."

Courfeyrac laughs, and Combeferre is pretty sure that somewhere an angel is getting its wings. "Easy there, tiger," he teases. "What kind of boy do you think I am?" He holds out a hand and Combeferre gently eases him to his feet. He isn't sure if it's just for show or really needed, but Courfeyrac leans into him and Combeferre holds him tightly around the waist. Just in case.

"Well, I was sort of thinking you were the person I was meant to spend the rest of my life with," he says, pressing their foreheads together.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes but clearly with affection and nothing more. "That is disgustingly cute," he says. "I don't do disgustingly cute."

Combeferre shrugs, tilting his head to give Courfeyrac another kiss. He pauses with his lips just brushing his and murmurs, "You'd better learn."

The little shiver that elicits is so satisfying, but the kiss that follows — the kind of kiss that he only ever thought happened in movies and novels, with soft whimpers and hands delving into hair and roaming over everywhere they could reach and bursting out in quiet, disbelieving laughter for no real reason — is even better.


End file.
